


The Parting Glass

by Padf00tandmo0ny



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fall of Gondolin, First Age, Gen, Glorfindel has a bit of PTSD, Gondolin, M/M, Pre-War of the Ring, Repressed Memories, Rivendell | Imladris, Self-Discovery, Self-Reflection, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17578826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padf00tandmo0ny/pseuds/Padf00tandmo0ny
Summary: While in the Halls of Fire, a song stirs something in Glorfindel. And Gondolin comes rushing back to him all over again.





	The Parting Glass

**Author's Note:**

> The song is the parting glass, covered by many many artists across the years

_and all I’ve done for want of wit_

_to memory now I can’t recall_

_So fill to me the parting glass_

Despite the mellow atmosphere the Halls of Fire held no reprieve for the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. The lyric verse, written by Lindir spoke of parted lovers, broken friendships, of bitter death. Glorfindel was no stranger to them, the music was yet another retelling of his life within Gondolin. The halls were his own healing wing, the music so often restoring his fëa and fixing the tears within that the destruction of Gondolin had brought upon his heart. It did not do so not tonight. The soft lines of poetry were reminders of what Glorfindel had left behind. The ancient Quenyan translation was like him, a relic of the past ages. It was no surprise Erestor had left early if he had known of the songs to come that night. No survivor of Gondolin, though there were little, wished to relive those nights. Swiftly rising to his feet Glorfindel grabbed a jug of alcohol. Perhaps the Dorwinion wine could warm his broken soul and act as Miruvor tonight.

 

_of all the money, that e'er I spent, I spent it in good company_

 

Oh, how the lyrics had reminded him of the hidden city. Of Írissë and Ecthelion's laughter as they all moved through the markets picking out fabrics from the traders while everyone prepared for Turgon's feasts. The way they held up the gaudy coloured bolts of silk and satin to his fair skin, teasing the young Lord Laurefindil as he had been back then. He could still hear Ecthelion's booming laugh as Írissë draped necklaces and scarves around the golden haired lord, who stood obediently all the while. The way Ecthelion cloaked him in deep green cloth and proclaimed him the prettiest Ellyn in Arda, while Írissë pinned brooch upon brooch to his cloak until Laurefindil truly was golden all over. The same Ecthelion who would cockily challenge him to spar after spar, placing bet after bet on the new recruits. Ecthelion, losing his dignity and wagers more often than not while Laurefindil looked on and laughed. Warrior and Warden Ecthelion may have been, but his talents lay more with the creation of music than the destruction of battle. Ecthelion, whose passion for every aspect of life had captured Laurefindil from the start.

 

_and all the harm that e'er I've done, alas it was to none but me_

 

And all of a sudden Glorfindel wasn't merely wandering in Imladris mulling on the past. Now he was Laurefindil rushing through the Great Market, fighting against the forces of Morgoth with Ecthelion and Galdor leading their own houses within his periphery. Blood and sweat mingled together, coating his armour and changing his golden hair to murky brown underneath it all. And then he was calling a retreat, eyes scanning over the slain members of his house as their blood ran down the cobbles of the square. So many barely out of training, so many seasoned warriors. There was no defeating the strength of the fallen Valar, it was as if he knew their every move and weakness before the forces of Gondolin themselves did. They were surrounded, outflanked by their enemy. The great grey dragon was bearing further and further down onto the elves and Laurefindil knew that as he and his men ran, none behind him had made it out.

 

_and of all the comrades that e'er I had, they are sorry for my going away_

 

The dragon was advancing again, this time with great burning beings in its clutches. Curse Maeglin and his betrayal. Laurefindil watched as it dropped the Balrogs onto the Alley of Roses and Ecthelion, brave foolish Ecthelion slammed into Gothmog, the force driving both deep into the fountain. As the steam rose from the fountain and he fought the oncoming forces, he realised Ecthelion was not rising from the water. Gothmog’s heavy corpse was spread over where Ecthelion had fell. If the flames had not got to the Lord of the Fountain, the water would have. He felt his heart rip in two, as if half his fëa had died with Ecthelion. He had been stripped of more than Gondolin that evening. To not see his smile, hear his laugh, feel his warmth again. All he could see were the ends of Ecthelion’s outstretched fingers above the water, floating like the tips of reeds in the marshes. The hand was angled towards him, as if that even in death he reached out to his love. Laurefindil’s cry of rage and despair was felt as his sword cut through orc after orc. He may have been still standing, but half of him had died that day.

_and all the sweethearts that e’er I had  they'd wish me one more day to stay_

 

He was pushing Tuor and Idril through the Cirith Thoronath now, urging on the last of the survivors as he wept for his friends, his family, his men. Eärendil was running hand in hand with his mother and father, desperately trying to reach the hidden tunnel. The ground was thrumming underneath their feet, the rattling coming from the steady pace of the the orcs pursuing them from behind. And here Laurefindil knew he would not survive. Not when he looked back and saw the burning eyes of the Balrog behind them. He would lead them to battle as a Lord of his house, one last time. He would not turn his back, not like Maeglin. Not even for one moment. As the orcs and Balrog advanced, Laurefindil drew his sword once more. One last cursory glance confirmed Tuor and Idril’s escape. And then he felt a pull upon his hair.

 

_but since it falls upon my lot, that I should write and you should not_

_I'll gently rise and softly call, goodnight and joy be with you all_

 

It was the faint giggling of Estel and rustling of leaves that brought him back. Glorfindel was sat upon a bench in the gardens of Imladris, Dorwinion jug untouched by his feet. The child was looking at him curiously from across the garden. It was the same curious look in his eyes that Eärendil had when exploring as a child. Remembering the son of Idril brought a bittersweet pang to his heart. The Dúnedain child was now toddling up to him, arms reached out to be held. Gilraen watched from a little away, smiling softly at the reborn elf lord and her son. And so Glorfindel lifted him to his knee, embraced him like he had Eärendil, Elladan and Elrohir, carefully moving his hair away from the reach of grabbing hands. The lord of the Golden Flower was more careful about tying his hair up nowadays. The dark fog of the First Age lifted from his mind as he held the heir of Isildur. Perhaps, like the small child's name suggested, there was hope to be found.

 

_so fill to me the parting glass, and drink a health whate'er befalls_

_I'll gently rise and softly call_

_Good night and joy be with you all_

**Author's Note:**

> I have no shame and wrote a hefty angst fest for Glorfindel. Might write more on his rebirth, relationship with Ecthelion, friendship with Írissë and frenemies with maeglin before things went tits up. Yeah, I love this obscure blonde elf


End file.
